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My mother’s hand tightens around my arm, and she pinches me, right above my elbow. It stings and I wince. Our eyes meet through the mirror, and her face is flushed with anger. “I’ve had enough of your attitude, young lady. Get undressed, now! We literally only have five minutes to do your hair and makeup.”
I swallow down my nausea and do as I’m told. I am my mother’s dutiful daughter.
Compliant, faithful and docile.
Once I’m dressed, she’s pulling my hair into a neat bun while I try to quickly do my makeup. She studies me through the mirror, and I wonder if she can see all my imperfections, all the ugliness that I keep inside me.
“You are lucky you got your natural beauty from me,” she compliments haughtily, but I know the praise is more for her than me. “Here, use the red lipstick. Bright red lips always complete any look.”
I’m dressed and ready to go in exactly eight minutes.
My mother rushes me out of my room and down the stairs, where my father is waiting in the lobby. He barely spares us a glance. “You’re late.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter in apology under my breath.
“Lateness is unladylike,” he grumbles harshly.
“I understand, I won’t be late again.” The diamond choker around my neck feels more like a restraining collar than a pretty, expensive necklace that was gifted to me on my birthday.
On our way to the venue, my stomach feels bloated. It’s painful and profoundly uncomfortable, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I fidget in my seat, and the lulling movement of the Range Rover has my stomach roiling with nausea, but I keep swallowing it down.
My throat burns with acidic bile. Deep breath, I remind myself. Just like I’ve read online.
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
When the car comes to a halt, I release a shuddering breath and plaster on a fake smile before stepping out. It’s a smile I’ve mastered. The one that tells people that Riley is in control, even when she’s spiraling out of it.
The one that speaks of confidence, even though she’s shriveling from the inside.
I am Riley Johnson: poised and confident. Calm, cool and collected. The perfect lady that my mother raised and my father expects me to be.
They see what I want them to see.
And it’s always been like that for as long as I can remember.
Dutiful, quiet, ladylike.
My mother and father walk inside, her hand around the curve of his elbow. They truly look like a power couple, walking with utmost confidence and authority.
I follow quietly behind them, ignoring the camera flashes.
Only I know that their marriage is loveless. An arrangement to further my father’s political career. My father needed an upper-class bride, and my mother needed a man with great wealth and social standing. Their marriage is a sham, and I am the unpleasant result of their fake love.
The air is cool inside, but I tense when I see the people — all of them in their fancy dresses and suits, champagne glasses in their hands and judgmental looks in their eyes.
The temperature rises in my body, and I suddenly feel suffocated.
I’m always on my best behavior during any social gathering, with my pretty smiles as I converse with anyone who approaches me. But I hate it.
I hate the crowd.
I hate the voices.
I hate the soft playing orchestra in the background.
I hate every sound that mingles together and my ears start to itch. My throat closes up, and I have to force myself to swallow past the heavy lump that’s lodged in my throat.
But my smile never once falters.
